The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

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      From the far corner of the lawn, Lane stared at the crime scene, his senses gone numb. No lights shone through the windows. By government order, darkness draped the city.

      Men in black trench coats, black hats, even blacker eyes, swam in and out through the front door. They carried boxes off the small porch and down the driveway, loaded them into two old Packards with rear suicide doors.

      FBI agents.

      He recognized their type from the picture shows. That’s what this had to be—a movie set. It wasn’t real. At any moment, the word Cut! would boom from a director’s horn and Cecil B. DeMille would leap from the trimmed hedges.

      “Sir, you’re gonna have to clear out.” The man approached him on the grass. His features were like Gary Cooper’s, but spread over an elongated face.

      When Lane didn’t respond, the guy sighed, took another tack. “I can see you’re concerned about the family. But right now, they’re part of an investigation. So I gotta ask you to move on till we’re done. I know you people like your privacy, and I’m sure the Moritomos are no different.”

      The mention of his surname—Moritomo, how did the fellow know that?—tore Lane from the surreal dimension of his hopes. There would be no intermission between reels, no velvet curtains or salted popcorn. Dramas crafted for the silver screen were morphing into the reality of his life.

      “Listen, pal.” The agent planted a fist on his hip. “I’ve asked you nicely, but if you’re not gonna abide—”

      “They’re mine.” Lane’s reply emerged with so little power he barely heard it himself. “The family in there is mine.”

      The man studied him and licked his bottom lip. He nodded toward the house. “Well, then you’d better go in. Agent Walsh will have some questions for you.”

      Lane scarcely registered the path he traveled that led him into the foyer. He was a driver after a weary day who had blinked and discovered he’d already reached his destination.

      “On

san!” Emma came running. She latched onto his waist. Her little body trembled.

      He set down his suitcase to rub the crown of her head. “What’s going on, Em? Where’s Papa?”

      She peeked over her shoulder and pointed toward the kitchen. Her manner indicated that the monster trapped in her closet had found a way out. Lane knelt on the slate and clasped his sister’s hands. It dawned on him how rapidly she had grown. He once could cover her entire fist with his palm. “You go to your room while I figure out what’s happening, okay?”

      “But those men, they keep going in there.”

      “Your bedroom?”

      She nodded with a frown. “They’re looking through all my stuff. They took Papa’s work books, and his radio, and his camera. Some of my Japanese tests too—even though I don’t care about that.” Then, cupping her mouth, she whispered, “I hid Sarah Mae so they couldn’t find her.”

      He was about to assure her that the doll he’d given her two Christmases ago wouldn’t be in jeopardy. But who knew what they were looking for, or what other absurd belongings they would confiscate.

      “Good thinking,” he told her. “Now, you just sit on the stairs here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

      Reluctantly, she stepped back and sat on the middle step. She gripped the bars of the banister and watched him through a gap.

      Lane paused while passing the parlor. Cushions of their empire couch had been slashed. Its stuffing poured out like foam. Scraps of papers dappled the rug. His father’s prized katana swords had been pillaged from the wall.

      A man’s husky voice, presumably Agent Walsh’s, led Lane into the kitchen. An oil lamp on the table soaked the room in yellow.

      “You’re not lying to me, are you, folks?” The guy, thick with a double chin and a round belly obscuring his belt, loomed over Lane’s parents, who sat stiff and humble in their chairs. He held up a small laughing Buddha statue. “’Cause I don’t want to wonder what else you might be hiding from me.”

      “We telling the truth,” Lane’s father insisted politely, taking obvious care to pronounce his words. “We Christians. Not Buddhists. Christians. This only Hotei-san.”

      “This is what?” Walsh said.

      “Hotei,” Lane replied, turning them. “It’s a lucky charm. My mother brought it from Japan when they first moved here.”

      “Uh-huh. And who might you be?”

      “I’m their son.”

      “Is that right,” Walsh said slowly, and glanced at Lane’s father. “I was told you were away at a university. How ’bout that, now?”

      Lane fought to control his tone. If his dad possessed any trait, it was integrity. “My train just got in. With a war starting, I thought I should be with my family.”

      “Sure, sure. I understand,” the agent said, as though not accusing. He returned to Lane’s mother in a gentle appeal. “Got a family of my own. Nice, pretty wife, two kids. Boy and girl, just like yours. So I know how it is, wanting to do everything I can to protect them. Which is the reason we need to ask all these questions.” He put the decoration on the coffee table and motioned at Lane. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” The arrogance of his invitation, implying a staked claim on the house, bristled the tiny hairs on Lane’s neck.

      Due to alien land laws, and Asian immigrants being barred from citizenship, his father could only lease the place. Although it was common practice, Lane hadn’t felt right about purchasing it in his own name to bypass the rules. He preferred to change the system and guide society’s evolution.

      That system, however, was turning out more flawed than Lane thought—starting with Agent Walsh, who eyed him, waiting for compliance.

      “I’m fine standing,” Lane bit out.

      “Uh-huh. Well, I’m telling you to take a seat.”

      “And I said I’m fine.”

      Their invisible push and pull raised the temperature of the room.

      “Takeshi, suwarinasai.” His father intervened, a stern command to sit.

      Lane’s gaze shot to his mother. The woman would never stand for such humiliation. After all, they had nothing to hide. But she remained rigid, her eyes fixed on the agent’s dress shoes, another insult to their home. That’s when Lane remembered he, too, hadn’t taken his off.

      “Boss,” a voice called out. The Gary Cooper agent entered the kitchen. “I think we got something here.”

      Walsh accepted a stack of large creased pages. Flickers from the lamp concealed the content from Lane’s view. The man flipped through them and drew out a whistle. “So you like airplanes, СКАЧАТЬ